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Hearst  Memorial  Ubrtiry 

^'''  ^' -  Shoff  No.  I/sz/J"--^ 

Drawer  No.  _...  inventory  No  :^^7 

"NOT  TO  BE  REMOVED  FROM  nLtv^  "^ 

W.THOUT  PROPER  AUTHOR.l^'^^ 


(m  k    HIS  edition   is  limited  to    500 
-^    copies    numbered    and  signed  by 
the  author  and  the  artist. 

This  is  No.     >^-?er 


^  Dish  ofjipples 


A    I>15H   or  APPLE5 

BY     IIDEN      PHI  LL  POTTS 

WITH    ILl-ST RATIONS 
BY  ARTHUR  RACKHAM 


HOVPtR  ^itOUCHTON 


Trinted  in  192 1, 


PAGE 


The  Wassailing 

17 

Cider  Makers 

25 

Cornish  Gillyflower 

31 

Ribston  Pippin 

35 

Barnack  Beauty 

43 

Normandy  Pippin 

47 

Crab-apple 

'  The  Fruits 

51 

Warner's  King 

55 

,Cheat-the-Boys 

59 

Devonshire  Quarrenden 

63 

Allington  Pippin 

69 

Song  to  Pomona 

75 

Illustrations  in  Qolour 


Pomona  (p.  75) 

Not  till  every  leaf  has  flown 
Will  he  desert  his  summer  throne 

Lady's  apple  thou  shalt  be 


Frontispiece 

facing  page  44 
68 


Illustrations  in  ^lack  and  White 


PAGE 

The  beginning  1 3 

There's  whispering  from  tree  to  tree  21 

In  gardens  of  old,  golden  Samarcand  37 

The  apples  of  Hesperides  41 

This  was  the  very  apple  65 

For  the  fairies  71 

The  end  77 


tJr<^*-^-X««> 


The  Wassailing 


& 


The  Wassailing 


OLD  Christmas  Eve's  the  proper  night 
For  wassaiHng  the  apple-trees  ; 
And  though  the  snow  came  to  their  knees, 
Our  fore-fathers  done  what  was  right, 
Poured  out  their  cider,  sang  their  song 
And  fired  their  guns  the  boughs  among, 
With  Ned  and  Fred  and  Jeremy, 
And  Jonah  Moss  and  Billy  Blee, 
And  gran'fer  Budd,  up  home  four  score. 
And  Sammy  Meek,  back  from  the  war. 

II 

The  girls  their  cider  pitchers  bring, 

With  liquor  steaming  on  the  air 

And  toast  and  spices  floating  there. 

Then  come  a  score  of  boys  to  sing, 

And  at  the  gate,  awaiting  us, 

Jan  Bassett  with  his  blunderbus. 

And  Lil  and  Jill  and  Minnie  West, 
Jane  Mortimer  and  Henry  Best, 
And  Benny  Tutt  and  Saul  Halfacre 
With  Molly  Dawe  and  Uncle  Baker. 


17 


Ill 

The  trees  fling  down  upon  the  snow 

Their  crooked  shadows  where  we  walk, 

To  hear  the  ancient  gaflPers  talk 

Of  wassailings  long,  long  ago  ; 

Then  pour  their  cider  at  the  roots 

To  help  another  summer's  fruits, 

With  Nick  and  Dick  and  Amos  Thorn, 
Old  Westaway  and  Michael  Horn, 
And  they  two  boys  of  Walter  Bleet  : 
No  angels  ever  sang  so  sweet. 

IV 

Bang  !  Bang  !  and  Bang  !  the  guns  do  ring 

And  flash  a  light  upon  the  throng, 

Who  laugh  aloud  and  tramp  along 

All  busy  at  the  wassailing. 

But  here  and  there  twin  shadows  go 

Where  hangs  a  tod  of  mistletoe 

Nigh  Ann,  or  Nan,  or  Johnny  Lugg, 
Or  dashing  Merryweather  Chugg — 
A  peacock's  feather  in  his  hat 
For  all  the  world  to  wonder  at. 

V 

The  moony  branches,  bright  and  clear 

Are  full  of  funny,  goblin  eyes 

All  staring  down  in  great  surprise 

To  see  their  neighbours  keep  such  cheer. 


18 


There's  whispering  from  tree  to  tree 

Above  the  jolly  company 

Of  Sib  and  Tib  and  Toby  Trout, 
With  "  crookback  "  Jim  and  Sandy  Prout, 
And  many  another  blade,  so  gay. 
In  oak  and  elm  long  laid  away. 

VI 

Good  Lord  !  It  don't  seem  far  ago  ; 

But  then  I  was  a  little  lad 

And  snuggling  close  beside  my  dad, 

Busting  wi'  joy  to  see  the  show. 

'Tis  sixty  year  and  more  I  doubt 

They  bygones  held  their  merry  rout. 

With  Belle  and  Nell  and  Yeoland's  boys, 
And  "  Ship  "  and  "  Trip  "  to  help  the  noise 
And  Samson  Worm  and  Sibby  Ash 
Stole  little  Susan  Gaunter 's  sash. 

VII 

But  half  a  century  will  round 

The  old  folk  up  ;  and  many  young 

Be  also  out  of  harm  among 

Their  elders  underneath  the  ground. 

And  in  these  strange,  new-fangled  days. 

There's  few  to  mind  the  ancient  ways 

Of  Nick,  or  Dick,  or  Amos  Thorn, 
Jane  Mortimer,  or  Michael  Horn, 
Or  gran'fer  Budd,  or  Toby  Trout, 
Or  Farmer  Westaway,  so  stout. 


'9. 


VIII 

Yet  when  Old  Christmas  Eve  do  bring 
Together  moon  and  snow  once  more, 
I  see  that  far  away  iipstore  ; 
I  hear  the  sleeping  people  sing, 
And  mark,  so  thick  as  honey  bees, 
Their  ghostes  through  the  apple-trees, 
With  Ned  and  Fred  and  Jeremy, 
And  Jonah  Moss  and  Billy  Blee, 
And  Merryweather  Chugg,  so  grand  ; 
And  father  holding  of  my  hand. 


20 


^?r»fa.')»'«" 


Cider  Makers 


noE 


Cider  Makers 

WHEN  drifts  the  apple-breath,  to  steal  again 
Through  fruit-crowned  orchards,  like  a  fragrant  wave, 
And  when  on  stilly  nights 
The  falling  fruit  we  hear  ; 

Then  creak  the  rusty  hinges,  gape  the  doors 
Of  cider  presses,  slumbering  and  dim  ; 
And  cobwebs  tatter  down 
To  shrivel  in  the  light. 

Through  many  a  dusty  vault  the  autumn  sun 
Launches  a  ruby  shaft  at  eventide, 
Determining  shadowy  shapes 
Within  the  velvet  gloom. 

The  presses  heave,  like  cavern  idols  set 
Above  the  granite  troughs  around  their  knees, 
And  seem  to  wake  again 
And  stretch  their  giant  limbs  ; 

For  tide  of  life  is  running  ;  feet  of  men 
Trample  the  orchard  herbage,  stamp  a  stain 
That  winds  away  and  fades 
Among  the  mossy  boles. 


25 


Beneath  the  bough  another  harvest  lies 

In  mounds  and  pools  of  Hght  and  scattered  stars, 

That  gleam  within  the  heart 

Of  every  apple  glade, 

Shining  behind  the  shadows,  twinkling  out 
Where  sunlight  strokes  the  grass  to  emerald, 
Or  where,  in  garnered  heap. 
The  crimson  apples  flame. 

Old  ministrants  of  cider  mysteries 
Blend  sweet  and  sour  on  immemorial  plan. 
And  wrap  the  sacrifice 
In  woven  horse-hair  grey  ; 

And  when  the  presses  turn  and  grip  and  crush, 
In  rivulets  the  virgin  ciders  flow. 
While  sunbeams  twine  thereon 
A  braid  of  trickling  fire. 

There  is  a  hum  and  bustle  through  the  vault ; 
Great,  hairy  arms  knot  up  and  heavy  hands 
Tug  at  the  beams  of  oak 
Upon  their  shining  screws  ; 

While  round  each  door  the  feathered  people  run- 
White,  spangled,  bronze  and  coral  red  of  comb — 
Who  from  the  pomace  peck 
A  feast  of  nut-brown  seeds. 

Ripples  the  cider  with  a  little  sound. 
Like  the  least,  purring  rill,  that  runs  to  catch 
Within  her  silver  bow 
The  blue  forget-me-nots. 


26 


Ripples  the  cider,  when  the  vat  is  drawn, 
Translucently,  as  though  crushed  opal  stones 
Were  melted  ;  then  away 
The  racking  to  endure. 

The  ancient  men  who  labour  at  the  mill, 
Have  drunk  from  more  than  fifty  cider  brews. 
Straining  the  massy  beams 
For  half  a  century. 

Where  rays  of  light  resolve  the  polished  wood, 
A  fret  of  carving  still  their  timbers  show. 
And,  graved  upon  the  grain. 
Are  names  of  heroes  fallen 

For  many  a  vanished,  mighty-shouldered  man, 
Who  drove  the  press  at  bygone  vintages, 
The  oak  shall  feel  no  more. 
Yet  still  his  life  records  ; 

And  though  no  stone  declares  their  sleeping-place 
Under  the  darnel,  yet  the  quick  may  read 
How  their  old  knives  have  set 
A  last  memorial  here. 

Day  upon  day  the  curdled  cider  spurts. 

The  timbers  grind  and  grunt,  and  through  the  murk, 

The  towering  screws  throw  down 

Their  cold  and  steely  shine. 

Then,  flowing  on  and  racked  and  racked  again, 
The  cloudy  liquors  sparkle  amber-bright, 
Till  fore-glow  of  the  dawn 
Is  not  more  crystal  clear. 


27 


The  rites  are  ended  ;  barrels  seem  to  bulge  ; 
Wet  vats  grow  dry  and  weary  beams  are  still, 
Their  chronicles  enriched 
With  new  recorded  names. 

Once  more  the  doors  are  fast  put  home  again 
And  quiet  comes,  to  tempt  with  solitude 
Quick,  peaceful,  flickering  things 
That  fear  the  voice  of  man. 

The  presses  slumber  and  their  fragrance  fades  ; 
The  shadowy  mouse  steals  back  into  his  haunt ; 
An  empty  knot-hole  throws 
The  only  ray  of  light. 

When,  red  of  eye  on  low  November  eves, 
The  sun  peeps  through  the  naked  apple-boughs, 
To  flash  a  fleeting  glance 
That's  lost  in  nothingness. 

Patient  Arachne,  hanging  on  her  thread, 
One  moment  twinkles,  like  a  bead  of  gold  ; 
Then  only  fitful  sounds 
Whisper  upon  the  dark. 


28 


Cornish  Gillyflower 


Cornish  Gillyflower 

THE  happy  pair  I  cannot  find, 
Whose  wedding,  in  some  orchard  bower, 
Begot  this  king  of  apple-kind  : 
Your  royal,  Cornish  Gilljrflower  ; 
But  bless  the  bee  the  pollen  shed 
On  that  glad  day  his  parents  wed. 

He  does  not  challenge  at  a  glance  ; 
Nor  flash  a  laughing,  gladsome  eye  ; 
He  never  seems  to  beck,  or  dance, 
Like  others  of  the  family, 
When  through  our  laden  orchard  aisles 
The  glory  of  their  harvest  smiles. 

High-shouldered,  in  a  plain,  green  coat, 
Uplifted  on  a  mossy  twig  ; 
He  does  not  sparkle,  smile  and  gloat ; 
He's  neither  bright,  nor  gay,  nor  big. 
Colour's  a  weakness  he  disdains 
And  unto  no  great  bulk  attains. 

He  will  not  promise  anything  ; 

He  likes  to  leave  the  uncultured  cold 

Who  seek  "  Tom  Putt,"  or  **  Pippin  King  "— 

Poor  slaves  to  scarlet  and  to  gold. 

As  "  intellectuals  "  you  may  find. 

He  thanks  God  for  his  austere  rind. 

31 


But  we,  who  know  the  inner  worth, 
Shall  pluck  him  with  a  grateful  hand, 
First  of  all  apples  on  the  earth, 
Best  of  all  apples  in  the  land — 
A  paragon,  a  super-type. 
Not  to  be  munched  till  he  is  ripe. 

Then  set  him  on  no  stuffy  board  : 
He  is  too  subtle,  strange  and  sweet. 
Oh,  be  that  Philistine  abhorred 
Who'd  sacrifice  him  after  meat. 
Solemn  the  rite  of  your  repasting  : 
Eat  "  Gilly  "  in  the  dawn — ^and  fasting! 


32 


Rihston  Pippin 


Rihston  Pippin 

UGUST  Thalia,  lift  my  trivial  rhyme 
To  the  sublime  ; 

Lend  me,  for  once,  your  purple  ink  to  dip  in 
I  sing,  or  try  to  sing,  the  Ribston  Pippin. 


A 


In  russet  clad,  and  o'er  his  noble  head 
A  halo  spread. 

He  reigns  upon  a  cordon  lifted  high. 
The  very  w^asps  salute  as  they  pass  by. 

The  courtier  leaves,  that  bend  about  his  throne, 
Their  livery  own 

From  him, — his  radiant,  melting,  mellow  brown, 
And  amber  rich,  and  scarlet  from  his  crown. 

With  reverend  wings,  the  peacock  butterfly 
Will  sometimes  try 

To  shield  his  forehead  from  the  noontide  blaze, 
Knowing  no  such  bloom  on  all  her  flowery  ways. 

Ambrosia,  nectar,  both  ;  and  at  his  best 

A  palimpsest  ; 

For,  through  the  abundance  of  his  native  wealth, 

Rise  magic  dreams  of  eastern  fruit  by  stealth. 


35 


Oh  more  than  apple  :  an  eUxir  too  ; 

Who  would  not  woo 

The  incomparable  mystery  he  stores 

From  orient  garths  and  spicy-scented  shores  ? 

All-heal  to  every  ache  and  grief  and  pain, 
Scion  of  strain 

They  harvested  for  Ahmed's  princely  hand 
In  gardens  of  old,  golden  Samarcand. 


36 


Barnack  Beauty 


x. 


IMPARTIALLY  displayed  with  these, 
The  apples  of  Hesperides 
Had  taken  but  a  second  place, 
For  flesh,  for  flavour  and  for  grace. 
The  very  birds  sing  best  to  me 
Upon  a  "  Barnack  Beauty  "  tree. 

This  fruit  majestical,  what  time 
He  Cometh  to  his  lordly  prime. 
Dons  ruby  satin,  rich  and  bold. 
Slashed  over  cloth  of  purest  gold. 
As  many  a  mind  of  high  estate, 
His  quality  develops  late. 

When  sinks  the  sun  at  grey  November, 
Still,  like  a  genial,  glowing  ember. 
Perched  firm  upon  his  pyramid, 
Though  orchard  lands  in  leaves  are  hid. 
With  steadfast  heart  and  patient  eye, 
He  marks  the  pageant  pass  and  die. 


43 


Not  until  every  leaf  has  flown 
Will  he  desert  his  summer  throne, 
Then,  full  of  days  and  plump  with  sap. 
Leap  gaily  down  into  your  lap  ; 
For  since  the  apple  world  began, 
He's  shown  a  great  goodwill  to  man. 

A  "  Barnack  Beauty,"  I  surmise, 
Paris  provided  for  his  prize  ; 
And  through  the  pips  you  surely  trace 
A  fruit  that  lost  and  won  the  race, 
When  Atalanta  stooped  to  seize 
What  Venus  gave  Hippomenes. 


44 


Normandy  Pippin 


Normandy  Pippin 

How  pure  the  azure  arch  and  dome 
Above  the  orchards  of  his  home  ; 
How  round  the  clouds  with  plumage  bright, 
Golden  and  rose  and  silver  white, 
That  sail  majestically  by 
O'er  Normandy,  o'er  Normandy. 

And  when  the  foaming  blossoms  blow 
At  red  bud-break  and  all  is  snow, 
That  buries  in  its  avalanche 
The  lichened  bough  and  sweeping  branch, 
Who  would  not  wing  and  swiftly  fly 
To  Normandy,  to  Normandy  ? 

When  autumn  days  are  come  again 
And  burn  the  gentle  hill  and  plain 
Beneath  their  sparkling  harvest,  then 
The  girls  and  boys,  the  maids  and  men 
Their  baskets  bring  and  pluck  and  ply 
Through  Normandy,  through  Normandy. 

It  is  not  given  all  to  see 

That  precious  pippin  on  his  tree  ; 

He  finds  his  mournful  way  to  town 

A  withered,  shrunken  wight,  and  brown, 

With  figure  gone  and  crest  awry 

From  Normandy,  from  Normandy. 

47 


Faded  the  roses  from  his  brow, 
He's  mummified  and  wrinkled  now 
Into  a  squat,  ungainly  lump. 
Oh  rusty,  melancholy  dump, 
Can  such  a  goblin  testify 
Of  Normandy,  of  Normandy  ? 

Fear  not  to  trust  him  :  he  is  one 
Whom  many  griefs  have  not  undone, 
For  fiery  torments  to  his  heart 
Only  an  added  joy  impart. 
Seeds  of  the  martyrs  sanctify 
All  Normandy,  all  Normandy. 

But  when  their  auburn  blood  we  drink, 
The  dish  forgotten,  still  we  think 
Of  sunny  orchards  where  they  grew, 
Of  apple-blooth  and  shadows  blue 
Upon  the  petals,  till  we  sigh 
For  Normandy,  for  Normandy. 


48 


Qrah  Apple 


Qrah  Apple 


WINTER  has  filched  the  forest  bare ; 
The  boughs  are  naked,  lean  and  grey 
But  whisper  to  the  winter  air, 
All  croaking,  creaking  cheerfully, 
Of  what  the  Spring 
Will  bring. 

Where  breaks  the  wood  upon  the  hill 
The  branches  of  a  crab  arise 
And  round  about,  for  all  who  will, 
Her  unregarded  harvest  lies, 
Cheerful  and  bright 
To  sight. 

Her  jewels  flash  among  the  weeds 
With  not  a  peck,  or  bite,  or  scar 
Save  where  a  mouse,  in  hope  of  seeds, 
Has  taken  courage  one  to  mar, 
But  lost  the  gain 
For  pain. 

Both  men  and  women  happen  so, 

Of  pulp  acerb  and  spirit  bleak  : 

Right  well  their  inner  wealth  they  know, 

And  muse  why  neighbours  never  seek 

To  win  the  gold 

They  hold. 

V- 


Alas,  we  shirk  them,  shy  and  swerve 
At  greeting  chill  and  voice  unkind  ; 
We  dread  the  pang  and  lack  the  nerve 
To  tackle  their  unfriendly  rind  ; 
Our  days  fly  past 
Too  fast. 


sa 


Warner  s  King 


w 


Warner  s  King 

ARNER,  I  knew  thee  not,  but  praise  thy  name, 
Exalt  thy  genius  and  extol  thy  fame. 
To  few  among  the  sons  of  men  belong 

More  fruitful  honour  than  my  modest  song 

Awards  to  thee  ;  thy  pilgrimage  on  earth 

Doth  shine  in  a  memorial  of  worth 

And  pillar  of  renown,  a  prize,  confessed 

Of  apples  one  among  the  dozen  best  ! 

With  regal  dignity,  while  Summer  wheels, 

He  waxeth,  till  his  glorious  girth  reveals 

His  station  on  the  bough,  and  through  the  green 

His  monumental  bulk  at  last  is  seen. 

A  globe  of  polished  emerald  he's  found, 

Reluctant  to  alight  until  one  pound 

Of  sweet  and  solid  flesh  his  body  weighs — 

A  joy  and  pride  for  early  Autumn  days. 


55 


Anon,  behold,  through  the  dim  apple-room, 

A  genial  flame  irradiate  the  gloom  ! 

It  is  the  ripening  of  Warner's  Kings 

From  green  to  orange  gold  :  one  often  flings 

A  roseate  ribbon,  pure  as  twilight's  breast, 

About  the  sunset  yellow  of  his  vest. 

They  scent  the  silence  ;  through  each  lordly  row 

Deepens  the  radiant  colour,  warms  the  glow. 

About  the  anxious  hours  of  Christmas  Day 
None  shall  be  found  so  debonair  as  they. 
Dark  though  the  sky,  or  white  the  wintry  earth. 
They  bring  their  hoarded  sunshine  and  their  worth, 
With  large  goodwill  and  generosity — 
Each  juicy  monarch  a  repast  for  three. 
The  baser  sort  consume  in  pies  and  stews  : 
They  know  not  what  they  do,  or  what  they  lose. 

When  blessed  Newton,  on  a  day  of  ease 
Dallied  at  Woolsthorpe  in  the  apple  trees, 
Against  a  goodly  bole  his  back  reclined 
While  solemn  thoughts  revolved  about  his  mind  ; 
And  when,  upon  that  philosophic  tile, 
A  "  Warner's  King  "  descended,  with  a  smile 
The  sage  responding  grasped  the  situation  : 
Hence  our  attractive  Law  of  Gravitation. 


56 


Qheat'the-Boys 


H 


Qheat'the-Boys 

F  all  the  apples  that  I  know, 

Or  sweet  or  sharp,  or  harsh  or  mellow , 

This  rubicund  and  devious  fellow 

Arrides  alike  the  high  and  low. 

By  seeming  honesty  of  show. 


O 


Displayed  upon  a  goodly  bough, 
When  August  to  September  turns. 
His  gold  and  scarlet  splendour  bums — 
A  very  master-jewel  now 
For  Dame  Pomona's  gracious  brow. 

And  did  we  leave  him  there,  we  might 
Still  wish  him  well  and  speak  him  fair, 
As  something  worthy,  rich  and  rare, 
Respecting  such  a  joyous  sight 
Without  a  nudge  from  appetite. 

If  we  but  walked  the  orchard  shades 
And  satisfied  our  teeth  and  tongue 
With  lesser,  modest  beauties  hung, 
Russet  and  lemon,  in  the  glades 
Of  apple-scented,  sweet  arcades  ; 


59 


Then  all  were  well ;  but  it  annoys 
The  thrifty  soul  to  see  such  riches 
Tumbling  ungarnered  into  ditches  : 
We  pluck  their  gay,  deceitful  toys 
And  join  the  other  cheated  bo)rs. 


60 


Devonshire  Quarrenden 


Devonshire  Quarrenden 

SOME  love  a  "  Russet  "  dearly,  and  some  the  sweet  "  Permain," 
But  if  you  want  an  "  early,"  when  August  comes  again, 
Oh,  where 's  a  better  beauty  within  the  orchard's  ken. 
Than  nutty,  fragrant,  fruity,  old  "  Devon  Quarrenden  "  ? 

"St.  Everard's  "  a  treasure  I  like  to  find  in  reach 
And  always  make  some  leisure  to  love  the  "  Irish  Peach  "  ; 
But  these  seductive  creatures  are  gone  with  summer  days  : 
They  lack  the  nobler  features  that  "  Quarrenden  "  displays. 

This  was  the  very  apple,  though  some  may  disbelieve. 
Flashed  through  a  leafy  dapple  and  took  the  eye  of  Eve  ; 
And  if  you'll  seek  another  and  hold  it  to  the  light, 
You'll  see  where  our  first  mother  bestowed  her  fateful  bite. 

An  error  and  far-reaching,  as  all  the  best  agree  ; 
But  they  can  do  the  preaching  if  I  may  have  the  tree  ; 
For  whether  safe  in  Heaven,  or  bunkered  and  elsewhere, 
My  "  Quarrenden  of  Devon  "  shall  be  established  there. 


63 


t^ss^s^ 


Allington  Pippin 


Allington  Pippin 


D 


ELI  GATE  and  dainty  thing  ! 

For  the  fairies  you  were  fashioned  ; 

Than  a  flavour  so  impassioned 
Pine  and  grape  no  richer  bring. 
Poets  falter 
At  your  ahar, 
Lacking  grace  your  charm  to  sing. 

Never  was  a  blonde  so  fair  ; 

Not  a  wild  rose  in  the  mom 

Wore  a  blush  so  sweet  and  rare. 

Laughing  all  the  maids  to  scorn. 

Such  perfection 

Of  complexion 

Well  might  make  a  girl  despair. 

Lady's  apple  thou  shalt  be 

Food  that  pretty  women  eat — 

Pouting  lips  thy  destiny, 

Sparkling  sweets  imto  the  sweet. 

Anathema 

For  the  dreamer 

Male,  who  lifts  a  hand  to  thee. 


69 


Pyban  apples,  with  their  scent, 
Fed  the  pygmy  folk  of  old  ; 
Such  ethereal  nourishment 
Made  them  all  as  good  as  gold  ; 
And  would  that  we, 
Inspired  by  thee, 
Thus  attained  to  our  content. 

If  on  fragrance  we  might  thrive  ; 

If  the  scent  of  quince  and  pear. 

Breath  of  honey  from  the  hive, 

Odours  in  the  orchard  air 

Filled  our  menu, 

What  a  gay,  new, 

Gentle,  gracious  life  we'd  live  ! 


70 


Song  to  Tomona 


Song  to  Tomona 

A  SILVER  dew  lies  on  the  Autumn  grasses, 
Autumnal  sunshine  habits  every  tree  ; 
From  each  bejewelled  bough  there  slowly  passes 
Immeasured  scent  and  sweetness  up  to  thee, 
Pomorum  Patrona  !  Pomorum  Patrona  ! 
O  hear,  as  thou  wert  wont  to  hear  of  old, 
Thou  guardian  goddess  of  the  red  and  gold. 

Banners,  above  thine  orchard  temples  flying. 
Flame  a  new  splendour  from  each  glowing  glade, 
And  radiant  hills  of  clustered  light  are  lying 
Beneath  the  lichened  pillars  in  the  shade, 
Pomorum  Patrona  !  Pomorum  Patrona  ! 
O  give,  as  thou  wert  wont  to  give  of  old, 
Thou  guardian  goddess  of  the  red  and  gold. 

With  ample  stores  abundantly  she  blesses 
Each  nestling  hamlet  of  the  hills  and  plains, 
Shaking  within  their  thirsty  cider-presses 
The  glory  garnered  from  her  woodland  fanes. 
Pomorum  Patrona  !  Pomorum  Patrona  ! 
We  praise  thy  name  with  voices  young  and  old, 
Thou  guardian  goddess  of  the  red  and  gold. 


75 


THE  WESTMINSTER  PRESS 

HARROW  ROAD 

LONDON 


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